


Through the Veil

by littlebassoonist



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Peggy-sue, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-10 18:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4402604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebassoonist/pseuds/littlebassoonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius Black is a man with lifetime's worth of regret--two lifetimes, in fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sirius Black wondered exactly when it had all gone to hell.

The moment Bellatrix had hit him with a stunner, he knew it was over. Of course, things went wrong years ago rather than seconds, and among his many fuck-ups were worse things than being hexed by his own cousin. As his body tumbled backwards towards that mysterious and forbidding archway, his mind raced through all the previous events. He had heard it said that one’s life flashed before one’s eyes upon facing death, had heard Reg describe how you could sometimes see it on someone’s face if you scared them well enough, but this was not a flash. This was an agonizing replay in which he could see a lifetime of regret. Suddenly, all of those cryptic things Dumbledore had said about what amazing things remorse can do to a man’s soul made sense, if only “amazing” meant “anguish-inducing and heart-wrenchingly excruciating.” He felt as though his soul was being stretched out on a rack or tossed on a pyre to be burned at the stake. No, Dumbledore had no idea what he was talking about. The daft old man couldn’t possibly have had many memories worth regretting, but Sirius Black, on the other hand, had more than enough. 

Most recently, Sirius regretted stopping to taunt his cousin. Somewhere—beyond the veil, maybe?—his mother was wearing her best I-told-you-so face, as it turned out that his smart mouth really did lead to his end. He could have used that breath to utter any number of curses, but he opted for an insult instead, and a lame one at that. He could have Avada Kedavra’d the bitch when he still had the chance; Merlin knew he had enough pent-up angst and hatred for an Unforgivable. At the very least, he could have used his last moments to come up with something actually witty to say to Bellatrix instead of running his damn mouth.

Better yet, he could have fought harder for Harry’s right to be informed about his own fate, and maybe they wouldn’t even be in this mess in the first place. He had so many more things to tell Harry, about how to hold his firewhisky like a true Gryffindor, about how not to look like too much of a prick in front of a pretty girl, about spells for contraception and potions for hangovers and what pranks would piss off Snape more than anything, and whole a whirlwind of memories of James and Remus and Lily and Peter. Of course, if he wanted to linger on all of the things he had done wrong, he could spend eternity mulling over his time as a Marauder. He should have stayed Secret-Keeper and just let You-Know-Who kill him instead of shrugging off the responsibility and being a decoy. He should have gone to Godric’s Hollow sooner and saved his friends. He should have fought Hagrid harder for his custody of Harry and spared the boy a childhood of torment with Muggles. He should have noticed something about Wormtail’s character when his Animagus was a rat, of all creatures. He shouldn’t have nearly gotten Snape killed at school, or maybe he should tried harder to let Lupin finish him off, and James and Lily would still be alive instead of condemned by that damn prophecy. Had the slimy bastard only sought out the Dark Arts in response to his bullying? Was it, after all, his own fault that James was dead? He should have shagged Marlene McKinnon after that Quidditch match, should have gone for Keeper when he had the chance, should have studied to get the OWL’s for Auror training (maybe an Auror would have been given a trial). He should have done anything besides laugh when the Aurors came to take him away from that bloody crater Peter left. He should have tried to reconcile with Regulus instead of alienating his entire family and leaving his baby brother to become a Death Eater, only to get himself killed for backing out. He had had every opportunity to reach out to so many of Voldemort’s followers, including his own soon-to-be murderer. But no—Sirius Black was going to die without a family, without his best friends, without getting any proper time with his godson, all because of his own foolishness.

His soul ached with regret. His stunned body fell beyond the outline of the arch, through the wispy, whispering veil, and he was no more.

When the first thing Sirius saw beyond the veil was the ceiling of his room in 12 Grimmauld Place, he was sure that he was in hell. None of his memories from this room were pleasant, and it seemed the afterlife wasn’t even kind enough to give him the posters he started collecting after his second year. If he must spend eternity in the Black Manor, it would at least help to have some pictures of bikini models and Muggle rock bands. Bands of sunlight streamed through the Slytherin-green curtains on his windows, leading Sirius to wonder why there was sunshine in hell. Why, too, were his hands so small and uncalloused, his legs short and knobby, and why did his stomach feel, for the first time in over a decade, as though he went to bed satisfyingly full? 

“Master Sirius,” a gravelly voice groaned from beyond his door, “it is time to wake up on this most important morning.” 

“I am in hell,” he muttered in a voice an octave higher than he remembered. Utterly confused, he swung his legs over the side of his bed and found himself at least a foot too short. He stumbled clumsily in his too-small body to the full-length mirror by his dresser. He found himself face-to-face with his eleven-year-old self: a round face plumped up with the best food money and house-elves could serve, light blue eyes that would fade to a mysterious gray with age, shaggy brown hair that hadn’t yet grown into what Lily called his “Mick Jagger” look, and not a single trace of spending 12 years surrounded by Dementors. He wanted to scream or pound the mirror so hard it shattered, but if, by some miracle, he really was alive, he would then have to answer to his parents. He imagined all the possible explanations—time-travel, eternal punishment, eternal reward, he was a ghost, he was in a coma, he was dreaming, this was some bizarre effect of the veil—and decided that assuming he was dead wouldn’t do him any good. Worst case scenario, he would wake up in a few hours in St. Mungo’s or pass on into the next life, which he thought he’d been prepared to do only a few minutes ago. Unless this was the next life, and he was being given the opportunity to redress his regrets by some fluke of arcane magic in the Department of Mysteries. If he really was eleven again, he could see James and Remus and Lily, he could go and hear Led Zepplin, Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, he could even see his brother again. 

“Master Sirius?” Kreacher croaked, this time rapping on his door.

“Coming,” he called, still shocked at the pitch of his voice.

As Sirius shed his pajamas for a set of robes, he realized with awe at how much he did not feel thirty-six. He had just lived another life—he had just died—yet he felt more like a child who had woken from a very strange dream. This dream just happened to predict the future of the next twenty-five years. 

But maybe not. He certainly felt as though he had free will, so it stood to reason that he could choose differently than he had before. 

When he flung the door open to meet Kreacher, Sirius had to stifle his revulsion. His hatred of the house-elf had only grown since his childhood, but it would benefit no one for him to mistreat his family’s servant. He couldn’t recall doing anything worse than an innocent prank at this age, so it would raise questions for him to suddenly express the loathing of a betrayed adult. He nodded at Kreacher as cordially as he could manage and hurried down the stairs.

The person sitting at the kitchen table made him want to throw up. Though Regulus Arcturus Black was only ten years old, the sight of him scared Sirius more than he thought possible. He had not seen his brother since graduating Hogwarts, and then, only in passing, as no self-respecting Black would acknowledge a runaway traitor. Yet here Reg was, baby-faced and sly as ever, eating carful bites of ham and toast while glancing at the day’s issue of the Daily Prophet. He looked up at the sound of Sirius’s bare feet padding along the kitchen floor.

“What’s wrong with you?” Reg asked with a scornful smile. “Drink too much of Father’s firewhisky again? Or did you go out and find the Muggle stuff this time?”

“As if I would ever get shitfaced and tell you.” Sirius wasn’t sure where those words came from and why he chose those as his first words to his long-dead brother, but Reg seemed unfazed. 

“Even if you don’t tell me, I’ll find out. I always do.”

He tentatively sat at the table where he already had a plate set for himself, a small luxury he couldn’t remember having since Hogwarts. “You’re never going to tell me how you know everything, huh?”

“Not a chance.” Sirius took a small bite of toast. Finding that he could still eat and enjoy food as much as any eleven-year-old boy, he dispelled his lingering suspicions that he was a ghost or any otherwise undead being. Regulus eyed his brother’s hesitance curiously. “But really, why do you look like Kreacher after he’s gone through your sock drawer?”

“I…” I haven’t seen you alive in almost twenty years, and I’m pretty sure that I’m dead, too, but if that’s the case, this is the strangest afterlife I could think of. “I had a funny dream.”

“Funny funny or bad funny?”

“Bad funny. Mother was a giant portrait with a Permanent Sticking Charm on the back, and she screamed every time I walked in the house. Oh, and Kreacher worshipped her like she was the best thing since broomsticks.”

Reg shrugged before pushing his copy of the Prophet aside. “Sounds funny funny to me.” Sirius glanced at the top of the paper to find the date—August 29, 1971, his first day at Hogwarts! His brother must have noticed his attempts at subtlety, because he added, “You forgot what day it is? Merlin’s pants, you did get shitfaced!”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that filth coming out of your mouth, young man,” said a commanding voice accompanied by heavy footsteps. Sirius didn’t need to look up to see who was talking; he had already started shaking involuntarily with apprehension of his father’s stern wand.

“I was only copying Sirius,” Reg mumbled in fake embarrassment. 

“Is it true, boy?” Mr. Orion Black asked with a firm hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” he stuttered, trying not to cringe too obviously at his father’s touch. “Won’t happen again.”

“Damn right it won’t. If it were any other day, I’d have the both of you for a solid Mouth-Washing Hex.” At those words, Sirius was met with a flood of repressed memories, a flash of fear, the taste of lye in his mouth. He put his toast down. “But it’s the big day, so we won’t tell your mother, eh? You’re going to make us proud today, boy.”

He remembered the lectures, the letters, the Howlers from another life after his parents heard the news of his Sorting. They had ranted about how it was bad enough that Aunt Dorea had gone and married that traitorous Potter boy, but now their son was expected to room with her son, and soon enough he’d be converted into one of those Muggleloving half-breed sympathizers. They had even arranged a conference with Dumbledore, Slughorn, and McGonagall to rectify this obvious mistake. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“And a Black’s best never disappoints.”

“Sirius, you’re finally up!” Walburga strode into the kitchen, and the rhythmic clink of her heels sounded like gunshots or curses. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten what day it is. And what’s this I heard about you dreaming about me?”

Regulus chimed in. “Sirius dreamt you were an angry portrait with a Permanent Sticking Charm.”

She considered this thoughtfully. “Well I am going to get my portrait done soon, but I hadn’t thought about a Sticking Charm. That’s a lovely idea, Regulus, thank you.”

Sirius opened his mouth to correct her, but between his father’s stern gaze and his own impending headache at what he believed was a temporal paradox, he kept quiet. He tried to finish his plate, but the nagging memory of Mouth-Washing Hexes and his parents’ disappointment tied his stomach in knots. He would have hoped that, after over a decade in Azkaban, he would have overcome his fear of Orion and Walburga, but it seemed that his younger body carried with it his younger attitudes and ideas. Either that, or not even the Dementors were hellish enough to steel him against his parents. 

“The elf packed everything you need, yes?” Orion asked his elder son.

“I believe so, sir, but I can check.”

“Nonsense—that’s the elf’s job. Kreacher!” With a bang, the house-elf appeared before the family. “Go and check Master Sirius’s school trunk one last time.” Kreacher bowed low before vanishing again. The elder Blacks looked at Sirius carefully.

“Regulus,” Walburga began, “why don’t you practice your penmanship before we take your brother to the Express?”

“Yes, Mother,” he said dutifully, trying to hide the unenthusiastic shuffle of his feet. His brother knew that he would likely be eavesdropping at the door anyway, as his parents hadn’t started to use Silencing Charms for family discussions until he was thirteen, and they started using particularly colorful language. 

“Now Sirius,” his mother said, turning from the kitchen door to the table, “we know that you haven’t been nearly as eager as your brother to represent the family name to the rest of the wizarding world, but the moment you set foot on that train, you will be symbolizing something much bigger than yourself. Your older cousins have done their part, but you are the Black male heir. You are a very important young man to the rest of the respectable families, and even the more common rabble will look up to you as an example of purity and power. Am I understood?”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Good. What this means is that you will need to be on your best behavior today. This is the first impression most of the other great families will have of you. Of course, once you’re Sorted into Slytherin, you can afford to be more relaxed in your common room and around your roommates, but until then, you never know which young man might turn out to be your best friend and which young lady may become your bride.” She must have mistaken the look on his face for shock, because she soon clarified, “Of course you aren’t concerned with that right now, nor should you be. But I understand the Talkalots have a daughter your year, as do the Goldsteins, though they do tend to be Sorted rather randomly. We just can’t have you going through Hogwarts burning all your bridges. The Rosiers have a son who will be starting with you today, and I’ve no doubt you will be roommates by the end of the night.” Sirius could only nod in response. “That’s a good boy.”

“Mother?” he asked. “What if I’m not in Slytherin?”

The Blacks exchanged an incredulous look before laughing loudly. “A Black not in Slytherin? Where would you go instead? You haven’t the marks for Ravenclaw nor the sociability of a Hufflepuff, and Merlin forbid you become one of those foolhardy Gryffindors. You pull enough antics that I can’t imagine you in any House but Slytherin, and we’ve done our best to raise you with the highest ambitions. Don’t worry yourself with silly ideas. Now, are you all ready?”

Sirius stood up to go, but his father stopped him with a rough hand on the back of his neck. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes, boy?”

“I forgot them,” he said quietly. 

“Did you expect to get on the train barefoot? What sort of foolish boy forgets his shoes?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he ran for the stairs. He passed by a giggling Reg on the way. While he was in his room, he snagged his wand and coinpurse as well, not wanting to imagine his father’s opinion of a wizard who was shoeless, wandless, and broke. He hadn’t felt his ebony and phoenix feather wand since they snapped it and carted him to prison, and it felt just as magical as he remembered. Once he had his shoes on, he descended the stairs much more slowly, letting each foot fall with a deliberate thump. He felt himself torn between two very familiar emotions: terror of his parents and the rebellious need to prove himself better than them. No matter how much the older Sirius wanted to surrender to his defiant, egotistical side, he was being smothered by his memories of panic and abuse as well as the reality of his current situation. He had to soldier through his time with his parents, knowing that the worst was always yet to come, but in five years, he would be able to find refuge with the Potters.

_Maybe I can run away earlier this time around._

Orion was waiting at the foot of the stairs. “Take off your left shoe.”

“What?” 

“Take it off, and don’t use such insolent language when you speak to me.” Sirius did as he was told. “Now give it to me.”

He realized too late what was about to come. Orion snatched the shoe from his son’s hands and swung it at his head. The sole collided with his left temple with a dull thud. Sirius tried not to flinch, but this younger body had a much lower tolerance for pain than that of one who had survived twelve years in prison. Before he could help it, silent tears streamed down his face, and his head throbbed with pain. He received another sudden blow to the other temple as his father added, “That’s for forgetting to address me as ‘sir.’”

“Yes, sir,” he whispered. 

“Now put the shoe back on, that’s a good boy. Wipe those tears off your face; we can’t have you seen weeping like a woman at King’s Cross.”

Orion herded his family and house-elf into their entryway. They were to Apparate to King’s Cross, him with Sirius and Walburga with Reg, while Kreacher would bring the luggage. Sirius discovered that Side-Along Apparition with his father was just as unpleasant as he remembered. However, when he opened his eyes to see the bustling community of wizards on Platform 9¾, he comforted himself with the idea of seeing James Potter alive for the first time in fifteen years. Throngs of robe-clad families carried luggage, comforted frightened first-years and lonely younger siblings, and made tearful goodbyes. Kreacher appeared beside them with Sirius’s large trunk, a carry-on bag, and a cage containing a black great horned owl Sirius barely recognized. 

“Her name is Cressida. You’ll share her with Regulus next year,” Walburga said, noticing her older son’s confusion. “We hope this means you’ll write home often.”

In his first life, Sirius stopped writing home after his first year, because his younger brother was all-too-willing to give a detailed report to their parents about the Marauder’s latest adventures. After running away, he hadn’t seen the owl at all. He felt a vague fondness for the bird and wondered if she would be of more use this time around. “Thank you, Mother and Father. I’ll be sure to write you.” 

Walburga gave him a brief, stiff hug, and Orion gave him nothing more than a stoic face and a curt nod. Sirius looked at Reg, forced a smile, and pulled his brother into a hug that neither of them seemed prepared for. “I’m going to miss having someone to tattle on me all the time, Reg,” he whispered, remembering the words he would have spoken at his brother’s wake, had he been allowed to go without James’s invisibility cloak.

“When did you get all mushy?”

Sirius pulled away from the hug. “If you’re going to be that way, then I won’t write you about what Hogwarts is like and give you a head start.”

Reg considered this for a moment, likely wondering if he could figure out how to suck up to each individual professor. “I was only joking. I’m going to miss you, too.”

With their goodbyes out of the way, Sirius and Regulus hauled his trunk to the luggage car. Sirius gave his family one last look over his shoulder before boarding the train, all the while trying to figure out whether or not he was grateful for this second chance. On the one hand, his head still throbbed, and would likely bruise or swell up. On the other hand, he couldn’t count the number of times he wished for the chance to have another conversation with his stupid, cowardly, just-following-orders brother. 

Sirius picked a compartment on the side of the train opposite the boarding deck to avoid seeing his parents not missing him, the same reason he had picked this same compartment years ago. He put Cressida on the seat beside him and waited anxiously for a certain someone to find him. Surely he hadn’t changed anything yet that would prevent this meeting from happening, but what if forgetting his shoes and being nice to Reg caused some sort of ripple in this timeline? What if no one ever came into his compartment, not even Snape, and he had to live out a second life all alone? What if he had accidentally prevented the Marauders from even banding together in the first place?

A knock on the compartment door startled Sirius out of his musings, and he found himself staring into the confident, bespeckled face of James Potter.


	2. Chapter 2

“Can I sit here?” James asked innocently, though Sirius knew it was an act. It was the same tone he used when McGonagall tried to get a confession out of him about why the Great Hall had been painted lime green or why Hagrid’s carved pumpkins had been charmed to yell insults at passersby. 

“Of course!” Sirius replied, hoping he didn’t sound too eager. He was going to have a difficult time explaining why he suddenly found himself overcome with emotion and the urge to hug his new acquaintance.

James took the seat across from him. His caged cat looked doubtfully at Cressida. “You a first-year, too?”

“That obvious?”

“That only reason you’d be sitting alone was if you didn’t know anybody or if no one liked you. You don’t look like the kind of person that nobody likes.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Sirius was already starting to forget the real first words he had shared with James as he tried to stay grounded in the present. “I’m Sirius, by the way. Sirius Black.” He stuck out his hand dutifully.

“James Potter.” They shook hands, awkwardly and mechanically, but Sirius had to remind himself that a bad handshake was better than not getting to touch his best friend at all for fifteen years. He forgot how long it had taken them to become best friends; he could barely remember a time when he and the other Marauders weren’t like brothers. “Your mum wouldn’t happen to be Walburga Black, would she?”

Sirius tried not to laugh at the prospect of calling Walburga Black “mum.” “That’s Mother.”

“My Mum, Dorea Potter, is your mum’s aunt, which makes us some kind of cousins. I’ve grown up hearing about you, but Dad didn’t seem all that keen to have us meet.”

“Do you know why not?”

“He says your mum is—”

The compartment door slid open loudly, and a girl with dark red hair and bright eyes asked, “Do you mind if I sit here? The train’s about to leave.”

James shrugged and kept his mouth shut. He hardly bothered to look at his future wife, which was just as well, as Lily kept to herself and looked on the verge of tears.

“Are you a first-year, too?” Sirius asked, hoping to draw her out of her shell.

“Yes,” she said quietly. After a long look out the window, she added, “I’m going to miss my mum and dad. My sister, too.” Just saying Petunia’s name made her lip quiver. At that moment, the train lurched forward, so Sirius pretended not to notice her whimper. 

“You can use my owl to write home if you want,” he offered.

Lily’s face lit up. “So they really do use owl post?”

“How else would we get our letters?”

“Well, my family are Muggles, and my sister wrote… It’s not important. Thanks for offering your owl. But won’t you need to write home, too?”

Sirius shrugged sheepishly. “I get the feeling my parents won’t want to hear from me too much.”

“Why not?” she asked, almost scandalized.

“Well, my whole family is in Slytherin, you see, and I’m—”

“Slytherin?” James exclaimed, disgusted. The mention of his rival House had woken him from his daydreaming. “And I thought you seemed alright.”

“What’s wrong with Slytherin?” A familiar, whiny voice spoke up. The compartment door was open, and in the doorway stood a greasy-haired boy in second-hand robes. Sirius remembered the hushed conversations in the Order about the prophecy, Dumbledore’s abridged account of who exactly knew about it and how, and his reluctant promise not to use any Unforgiveables on Snape. He wondered idly if Unbreakable Vows made in a past life had any effect on the present. He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk it.

“You haven’t met my family,” Sirius said solemnly, “but I’m hoping I’ll break the tradition.”

Severus scowled and posed the other boys a question. “Where do you hope to get Sorted, then, if not Slytherin?”

James lifted an invisible sword. “‘Gryffindor! Where dwell the brave at heart.’ Just like my dad.”

“If you’d rather be brawny than brainy,” Severus muttered.

Sirius remembered how he had responded in his first life, but he held his tongue. He was still debating the effects of antagonizing Snape, and as of yet, the little bugger hadn’t done much to deserve it. Instead, he simply nodded in approval of James’s answer.

“Anyway, Lily,” Severus said, “I came to see if you’re alright. I saw Petunia—”

Lily cut him off. “It’s okay, Sev. I’ll be okay. And this nice boy is offering to let me use his owl.”

“The school has owls for anyone to use, you know,” he scoffed. “She’s not a charity case.”

“Cressida could use the exercise, though,” Sirius pointed out, trying not to get riled up by Snape’s attitude, and failing. “And since Lily obviously doesn’t have an owl, I was only trying to help.”

“She doesn’t need your help,” he replied coldly.

“Severus!” Lily exclaimed. 

James burst out laughing. “What sort of name is ‘Severus?’” He imitated Lily’s shocked voice and looked at Sirius hopefully. Sirius stayed torn between wanting to taunt his lifelong nemesis and not wanting to ‘burn his bridges,’ as Mother said. “What—you don’t think it’s funny?” James asked him. Lily scowled. Severus looked ready to leave. “Don’t tell me you’re a Slytherin and you have no sense of humor.” 

How had James and Sirius become friends in his first life? Had their first meaningful interaction really been over damn Severus Snape? Their friendship had progressed into so much more afterward, but maybe it needed this as a starting place. But what if forging a friendship with the greasy git would prevent him from being a murderous, greasy git? Even being dead-set on Slytherin at age 11, was there hope to turn him around? Or maybe Snape was destined to turn out evil no matter what he, Sirius, did. Sirius weighed his options and broke out into a grin. “I only hope your girlfriend has better luck in the Sorting than you, Snivellus.”

That remark sent both Lily and Snape storming out of the compartment. Lily paused at the door to say, “I won’t be needing your owl,” and marched after her friend. James and Sirius started copying that sentence in increasingly higher-pitched and snobbier voices. As a final farewell, James called out, “See ya, Snivellus!” 

The two remaining boys laughed until their sides hurt. Sirius forgot the heavy weight of his past life, forgot the look of James’s dead body and Peter’s finger falling off and the depression the Dementors imprinted on his soul, and let himself be an 11-year-old. Any doubts about the consequences of marauding with James were dispelled; having a good laugh with his best mate was easily worth sorting out the Snape problem later. This, the simple joy of laughing with James, made everything seem easier. 

A knock on the door interrupted them. 

“I hope it’s the sweets trolley!” James said, fishing for coins in the pocket of his robes. Sirius knew better. 

“I’ll get it,” he said, sliding from his seat to open the door. He tried not to tremble with excitement at the anticipation of being reunited with Remus in their young bodies, bodies not so worn and beaten by years as a werewolf or a Dementor’s plaything, eyes that could still light up with joy and had not yet seen the horrors of war. He slid the compartment door open and grinned—maybe they would think he was smiling at the prospect of sweets—into the face of Peter Pettigrew.

“Can we sit here?”

How could he have forgotten? Sirius had been so caught up in Regulus and James and Remus and stupid Snivellus that he had forgotten Peter. Forgetting Peter was easier, because then he didn’t have to remember the four of them getting drunk together in the common room, the four of them making the Map, the four of them becoming Animagi and playing glorious pranks and talking about girls and living and dying and the future. If Sirius could pretend that the Marauders were only three, his heart was distinctly less heavy. But he could not forget a lifetime of antics and hilarity with one of his best mates, nor could he forget the hatred and betrayal that plagued him for nearly fifteen years. He hadn’t even considered what he might do differently regarding Peter. He couldn’t kill him on the spot, and he might not be able to kill him during their stay at Hogwarts at all because of security. Besides, being carted off to Azkaban for a crime he did commit would be only slightly better than for a crime he didn’t. He could try harder to be a better friend, to not let him get sucked in by You-Know-Who, but just looking at the boy made him want to throw up. How could he have forgotten about Peter. Fucking. Pettigrew.

After a long, stunned moment, Sirius noticed that behind the chubby, blond boy was a frail boy with scratches on his face.

“Um. Yeah,” Sirius said.

“You alright?” Peter asked.

“He thought you were sweets,” James answered, looking similarly crestfallen. 

The four of them took their seats in a square, avoiding eye contact for a very awkward minute, before Peter broke the silence.

“Thanks for letting us in. Some Slytherins were trying to make us eat eye of newt. Their idea of a joke.”

“Well,” James began, “you came to a proudly anti-Slytherin compartment. Sirius here is going to be the first Gryffindor in his family in at least three centuries, right?”

Sirius forced a weak smile, still a bit anxious about his Sorting. Not only did he dread his parents’ reaction, but he wasn’t even sure that he would still get put in Gryffindor, what with his brain full of someone else’s memories. “That’s the plan, though I would take Hufflepuff, too.”

“I feel like Hufflepuff is the only house that would take me,” Peter moped.

_Hufflepuff is for loyalty,_ Sirius thought, _not Muggle-killing, back-stabbing, Dark Lord-worshipping bastards._

“You stood up to those Slytherins pretty well earlier,” Remus noted. “That’s how we met; you told them to let me go, even called one of them ‘a fat-faced troll.’”

“But then I got picked up and had newt eyes shoved in my face,” he said. “That sort of thing doesn’t happen to Gryffindors.”

James beamed at Peter. “Well I’m impressed with anyone who can insult a Slytherin.”

The boy blushed. “Thanks. My name’s Peter, by the way.”

“James.”

“Remus.”

“Sirius.”

The rest of the train ride passed almost perfectly: the sweets trolley came along, and Sirius treated them all to a mountain of Chocolate Frogs, starting Remus’s collection with Agrippa, Circe, and Dumbledore; James and Sirius recounted the earlier events with Lily and Snape, much to Peter’s delight and Remus’s disapproval; James led the discussion on how exactly the Sorting process worked, suggesting Herculean tasks or a multiple choice test; Peter sighed happily that he hoped they would all end up in the same house; but Sirius could not fully enjoy himself in Peter’s presence. 

They all sensed it, and nobody was exactly sure how to handle it. Peter tried to present a peace offering in the form of his newfound Ptolemy card—“I buy enough of these that I’m bound to find another sooner or later”—and Sirius lied smoothly that he already had a Ptolemy in his collection at home, simply because he did not want to touch anything the rat had touched. This served as a temporary fix to their tension as it gave James the chance to boast about his rare silver-edition Merlin, his Falco Aesalon, the first Animagus, and his personal favorite, Godric Gryffindor, whose card came not in the traditional purple-and-gold spangled setting but in maroon-and-gold stripes. The mention of Gryffindor sent the boys back down the conversation of Sorting and Houses.

The train crawled to a halt, and soon hundreds of robed teenagers flocked past their compartment. The four boys gathered their things and followed the crowd to catch their first glimpses of the Hogwarts grounds, but the bustling crowd and din of voices made it very difficult, especially for short first-years. A weary-eyed witch requested all magical animals be given to her before students boarded either the boats or carriages, while a giant, bearded man beckoned the first-years. Sirius felt a deep sense of gratitude upon seeing Hagrid, remembering his time with Witherwings. Before he knew it, he was in a small rowboat with Remus, gliding along the Black Lake. When the castle came into view, he heard gasps of awe in stereo. The towers pierced the night sky, the yellow light of candles and lamps lit up the windows like stars, and the sprawling landscape held everything from a Quidditch pitch to the Forbidden Forest to the Herbology greenhouses. Hogwarts was every bit as magical as he remembered and could still fill him with wonder. 

Remus looked uncharacteristically peaceful. He kept his eyes glued to the glowing windows of the Gryffindor Tower. “It already feels like home, doesn’t it?” he asked in a distant voice. 

“You have no idea,” Sirius said.

Custody of the first-years shifted from Hagrid to Professor McGonagall, who was much less wrinkled but every bit as strict as the last time Sirius had seen her. James quickly established that he was not going to be her favorite student when he declared that there was no need to Sort him as he already knew where he belonged. (To his credit, that loud and proud attitude nearly proved him right.) Sirius held his tongue and drank in his surroundings, letting his eyes meet as many faces as he could and enjoy the warmth and familiarity of the castle. This was the Hogwarts of his memory, not the dwindled numbers of Harry’s year—oh, how it stung to be in that dormitory with only five Gryffindor boys in their year—but the population boom of his own time when classes could have a hundred students. There were the usual purebloods, dozens of Muggle-borns, and an immense amount of half-bloods. He knew why it was so different. After Grindlewald’s war, Muggles and wizards were so desperate that magical and non-magical boundaries barely existed. They had fought a war together, so what would stop them from doing life together? But the First Wizarding War would undo any progress in Muggle-Magical relations, and the many Muggle-borns would be catalogued and hunted down. It really should not have surprised him that by Harry’s time in Hogwarts, the population plummeted. Sirius tried not to wonder about how powerless he was to stop it from happening.

Professor McGonagall’s commanding voice reminded him that he was not in Harry’s time, and the hundreds of deaths he remembered had not happened yet. Only three students preceded him in the Sorting, so after Aubrey, Bertram scampered off to the Ravenclaw table, Sirius was sitting on a stool before all of Hogwarts with a talking hat on his head.

“Well, aren’t you the most peculiar head on which I’ve had the pleasure to sit?” the Hat said.

_I’m just as confused as you are, mate,_ Sirius thought. _I can’t explain it either._

“Welcome back, Mr. Black. What to do with you, I wonder? I’ve Sorted you before, apparently, but this brain is so much different than the first. You’ll be the most brilliant student in your class, you know, with all of your… foreknowledge. You are loyal, so loyal to your friends that Time Itself sent you back to save them. And there is the matter of your family. I’ve never seen a Black who wasn’t destined for greatness.”

_I need my parents to believe that I’m asking to be in Slytherin—which I’m not—because I have to be in Gryffindor. My parents would disown me on the spot if they thought I wanted to be different; they did it before. I don’t have time for that._

“And what do your parents have to do with anything?”

_If this goes anything like last time, they’re going to arrange a meeting with you and me and Dumbledore, and probably Slughorn and McGonagall, too. They’ll want to “sort things out.” So I’m asking you to lie, please._

“Why should I? I have nothing to gain.”

_You’ll get the wonderful consolation of knowing that you prevented an eleven-year-old boy from being destitute and cut off from his only brother… again._

“But you’re not really eleven, are you?”

_Please just say you’ll lie._

“Your plan is so very Slytherin of you, you know. It would hardly be a lie at all to say you were asking me to put you there.”

_But it’s only because I need to save my friends and avoid getting disowned so I can save my brother. Hero complex, see?_

“Very well. You can relax, Mr. Black. You are, and always will be, a GRYFFINDOR.” When the Hat finally bellowed that last word, Sirius relaxed and grinned at his table waiting for him. Despite knowing the impending wrath of his parents, he found comfort in at least knowing exactly how they would respond, unlike before. Across the Great Hall, Andromeda whispered worriedly to Narcissa, who was looking anxiously at her boyfriend Lucius to gauge his reaction. Sirius took his seat as the first of the new Gryffindors on an empty stretch of bench, ensuring room for James and Remus, at least.

He watched with only mild interest Boot, Laurence (Hufflepuff); Bristol, Anderson (Hufflepuff); Brown, Rose (Gryffindor); Bywater, Briony (Gryffindor); Carrow, Ares (Slytherin); Clutch, Helena (Ravenclaw); and so on, until Evans, Lily approached the stool. The hat had only to touch her head before she joined the Gryffindor table. She declined sitting beside Sirius, but she did take the seat across from him. Still in line, Snape, Snivellus looked distraught at his friend’s luck.

His classmates slowly filled the empty seats in the Great Hall. With each shout of GRYFFINDOR! he saw not his classmates but their futures, and it made so much sense why the Hogwarts population was lost by half. He watched the familiar faces join their table: Flannery, Siobhan (married a Muggle); Goldstein, Alice (tortured to insanity); Green, Topher (lynched); Jones, Jack (lynched); Karkoff, Aloysius (fled Britain with his family in seventh year); Longbottom, Frank (tortured to insanity); Lupin, Remus (in hiding); McDonald, Mary (married a pureblood but still on the run); McKinnon, Marlene (dead); Meadowes, Dorcas (dead); Munch, Venus (dead); Pettigrew, Peter Fucking (as good as dead); Potter, James (DEAD); Prewett, Barney (dead); Perks, Lester (Venus’s widower); Walters, Calliope (lost her parents in fifth year). And for the smallest moment, Sirius envied Harry for having such a small class because it meant he had fewer people to lose.

After a Zabini, Amber took her place at the Slytherin table, Dumbledore stepped forward. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a Sorting with two hatstalls,” Dumbledore began, “but welcome to Gryffindor, Mr. Black and Mr. Pettigrew; I’m sure you didn’t mean to keep us waiting. I would like to remind all of you that the Forbidden Forest is, as the name suggests, Forbidden to unaccompanied students. This is for your safety. Our latest teacher of Defense Against the Dark Arts is Professor Amaris Shacklebolt,” an intimidating woman stood up from the professors’ table to a short road of applause, “whom we welcome with open arms. Now, as I’m sure you’ve all been ready to do since you arrived, let us all tuck in!”

Food appeared on all of the tables, turkey and ham and roast beef, plates of cheeses, bowls of every sort of green, fresh rolls and loaves of bread, hot soups and stews, and goblets of pumpkin juice. Every face lit up, and tuck in they did. Sirius juggled conversations between a boisterous James, a quiet Remus, and an obviously insecure Frank Longbottom. Frank had been a good man in his other life, but Sirius hadn’t known him well before joining the Order. Whatever emptiness Peter left in his heart, Frank could easily fill. 

“The Chudley Cannons, Peter?” James exclaimed. “Really? You could at least root for the Harpies. Sirius, who’s your team?”

“Puddlemere United, usually,” he answered over his shoulder, “but the Harpies have the advantage of being hot.”

“See? Someone with sense!”

Sirius drowned out James’s ensuing rant by talking to Frank. “What’s your team?”

“The Wasps, usually,” he said. “I think it’s sort of noble to root for the Cannons, though. Someone has to, at least.”

This sent both boys into a fit of giggles, and Sirius dribbled beef stew on his robes. Remus made an offhanded comment about the Montrose Magpies but clearly was not interested in the conversation. 

“The Harpies are cute,” Frank admitted.

“I’m sure the dorm would benefit from a few posters, yeah?” Sirius suggested. Remus rolled his eyes but could not suppress his smile. Lily, who had since scooted closer to Rose Brown and Marlene McKinnon, huffed at the overheard conversation, but Sirius found some comfort in the idea that she was listening to them. 

The feast left them all with painfully full bellies and ready for bed. Jennifer Jones, the older sister of Jack and one of the Gryffindor Prefects, guided them through the castle to their rooms. Their dormitory was a two-leveled room with five beds and a bathroom to each floor. A simple staircase wound around the wall, connecting the rooms. James claimed the upper room for himself, Peter, Remus, and Sirius. The final bed was given to Frank with a nudge from Sirius. Les, Aloysius, Topher, Jack, and Barney took the lower floor. Under the pretense that he had to explain the issue of his Sorting to his parents—which was not entirely false—Sirius avoided making introductions and brought a quill and parchment to the common room. He let himself feel eleven again, to simultaneously want to appease his father and be nothing like him. The older Sirius faded to the back of his mind and made room for his younger, confused, and terrified self, whom he channeled into his letter. 

_Dear Mother and Father,_

_Something has gone terribly wrong and please please please don’t be mad at me. I am not in Slytherin. I don’t know what happened, but I’m in Gryffindor and I don’t know what to do. You can owl Professor McGonagall, my Head of House, if you want. I don’t know what I did wrong. I don’t know what’s wrong with me._

_You will be happy to know that the boys who share my room aren’t bad, two half-bloods and two purebloods. It could be worse. I mean, there is the other sort, but they sleep in the room below me. I promise to say hello to Narcissa and Andromeda in the morning._

_I’m so sorry for whatever I did and for potentially embarrassing the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. – Sirius._

Regulus’s letter was going to be harder to write, but at least it would be significantly more honest. All the brotherly feelings he never let himself feel before crept up, and, for the first time in his life, he wrote Reg a letter. 

_Reg,_

_I’m sure you’ll think this whole mess is just another joke, but you’re the one who gets to live in the house with our parents when they find out I’m in Gryffindor. It turns out that I have the ambition of a troll, but really—you’re not surprised by that at all, are you?_

_Well, I promised you insider secrets, didn’t I? Aside from the minor catastrophe that is my Sorting, Hogwarts is amazing. The train ride can be rather dull, but there’s a trolley with really cheap sweets. You know how Mother has that Aunt Dorea? Her son is in my year and rode in my compartment. He actually called Walburga my “mum.” Imagine one of us actually saying that to her face! Is Aunt Dorea still on the tapestry? I want to know if this James Potter bloke is going to piss Mother off as much as I think he will._

_The first-years ride in boats to the castle, I guess to give us our first good look at it. It really is amazing, but I guess you’ll want to look cool and unimpressed when it’s your turn. And then the Deputy Headmistress—she’s a Gryffindor, so I doubt you’ll have much luck sucking up to her—put us in alphabetical order for the Sorting. It wasn’t anything spectacular, just a talking hat. All that talk Father and cousin Bella made about how grueling Sorting could be was just to scare us. The Sorting Hat listens to your thoughts and even lets you think back at it. I took the longest, it turns out, probably because it didn’t know what to do with a dumb, loud Black. I bet you won’t take long at all, you being Mother and Father’s angel child. Sometimes I think they think you are Salazar incarnate. (You’d tell me if you were Salazar incarnate, right?)_

_Enjoy being the only recipient of our parents’ attentions._

_Your brother who most definitely did not get drunk last night,- Sirius_

_PS: Remember that Holyhead Harpies edition of Seeker Weekly that Father got all upset over? Any chance you could owl it back to me? It’s under my mattress. Thanks._

When he watched Cressida take off in the dark of night, Sirius felt a certainty he hadn’t felt in years that he was finally doing something right.


	3. Chapter 3

During breakfast, it was not Cressida who brought the Howlers, but Juno, Orion Black’s personal owl. Sirius stared dumbly at the two red envelopes that fell onto his plate of eggs and sausage, dreading his inevitable embarrassment. James whispered to a nearby Jack and Topher about the significance of Howlers, while Frank gently urged him to get it over with. Hands shaking, he tore open the envelope addressed in his mother’s script.

The envelope burst into life, and Walburga Black’s voice echoed through the Great Hall. “SIRIUS ORION BLACK, THIS HAD BETTER NOT BE ONE OF YOUR JOKES! I SWEAR TO MERLIN IF YOU THINK LIVING WITH HALF-BREEDS AND BLOOD TRAITORS IS A PRANK, I WILL HEX YOU INTO YOUR SIXTH YEAR!” Fortunately, the Howler did not last long, and the envelope soon burst. All eyes locked on Sirius, some with embarrassment and pity, some with fear of his mother’s bigotry, and some with contempt. He wanted to make some smart remark with all of the attention, but he could do little besides breathe with his heart pounding in his ears, his body bracing itself for his father’s abuse. He didn’t know how to tell his fight-or-flight response that his father’s current weapons were only words, and thus he felt as though on the verge of receiving wand burns or disciplinary shocks.

“Just open it,” James said, looking at the second Howler. “We won’t judge you for what your parents think.” Sirius could only hope that would hold true a second time.

Orion’s Howler was not like his wife’s. Where she had screeched at her rebellious son, he did not yell. Instead, he spoke with his heavy voice laced with judgment, projected to the same volume as the previous Howler. “I DON’T CARE WHAT YOUR MOTHER SAYS, BUT THIS HAD BETTER JUST BE ONE OF YOUR STUPID JOKES, BOY. I WILL NOT BE HAVING THE BLACK HEIR SULLY THE FAMILY NAME WITH FOOLISHNESS AND MUDBLOODS. NOT ONLY HAVE YOU PUT YOUR MOTHER IN DISTRESS, BUT YOU HAVE DISAPPOINTED ME. WE WILL ARRANGE A CONFERENCE WITH THE HEADMASTER SHORTLY.”

Sirius was in shock. This event was by no means unexpected, but he did not anticipate caring so deeply what all of Hogwarts thought of him. He did not expect his parents to send two Howlers, and he did not expect his father to say “mudblood” for all the school to hear. The Gryffindor table turned away from where he sat, as if to give him up for the Slytherins to take. The Slytherins, however, seemed torn between amusement at his plight and embarrassment at having such outdated prejudices associated with their House. The Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws simply stared. 

It was Remus who put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and James who finally broke the silence. “Well, he’s obviously not like his parents, or he wouldn’t have been put in Gryffindor, would he?” he said loudly. And, like children caught sneaking out of bed, the students returned to breakfast with heads bowed in embarrassment. Conversation slowly returned to its normal pitch. Peter and Frank gave him uneasy, but not betrayed, glances.

“Thanks,” Sirius mumbled. His voice was still quivering. He looked at his eggs, now littered with pieces of red envelope, and realized he had lost all his appetite. 

James shrugged. “I meant it. We can’t blame you for what your parents think, especially when you’re obviously not a bigoted, purist Slytherin. That just wouldn’t be fair.”

Remus leaned in closely to ask a question under his breath. “When she—your mum—said ‘half-breeds,’ what exactly did she mean?”

Sirius studied his friend’s expression. Remus was obviously thinking of his furry little problem, but he might also have considered his blood status a hindrance to their friendship. “She doesn’t think that wizards should, er, ‘mate’ with Muggles. But I promise you I don’t care if you’re half-blood or pureblood or Muggleborn or whatever. I’m not…”

“Not like them,” James finished for him.

Jennifer Jones approached the first-years, schedules in hand, in lieu of Professor McGonagall, who had yet to be seen all morning. Sirius wondered with dread if she, too, had been on the receiving end of his parents’ Howlers. His ill feelings were short lived, as he looked at his schedule to find Charms his first class. Finally, he could do magic again. He had not wanted to rouse suspicions or cause trouble on the train or in his room, not when he had more pressing matters to attend to like having a laugh with James and figuring out what the hell to do with Peter. He became more aware of his wand stuck in his back pocket and used the thought of doing magic to get him through the rest of his mortifying breakfast. 

Professor Flitwick welcomed the students heartily, bade them sit, and began a well-practiced monologue in his high-pitched voice. “Magic is, at its heart, bringing an idea into reality. This means that magic goes beyond mere wand waving and incantations; those are simply the vessel through which your magic moves. However, as the vessels for your magic, it is crucial that you master these skills in order to produce the best outcome for each spell. Beyond wands and words, magic depends upon will, intent, concentration, understanding, and experience. These aspects are best honed through practice.” Sirius considered for a moment that his mind had significantly more understanding and concentration than any of his classmates’, but this physical body had little magical experience. Was the Sorting Hat correct when it said he would be the top of his class? “We will spend the first half of each class covering wand movements, incantations, and spell theory. The second half will be dedicated to practice.”

Their first class was dedicated to the Levitating Charm. The whole class chanted together “wingardium leviosa” and drilled the swish-and-flick motion. When Professor Flitwick was satisfied, he passed out a feather to each student and directed them to attempt levitation. Sirius watched his other classmates before practicing on his own, as he didn’t want to draw more attention to himself after his parents’ Howlers. However, as only a few students got so much as a wiggle out of their feathers on this first few tries, he decided that the thrill of performing magic outweighed the risk of unwanted attention. He felt the magic practically pulsing through his arm when he held his wand, and the incantation slipped from his mouth as easily as calling Snape “Snivellus.” 

Sirius’s feather leapt from the table and hovered four feet in the air. He grinned, completely forgetting his parents for the time being, and admired his own handiwork. This surge of happiness had an unforeseen side effect, because soon his parchment followed the feather, along with his inkwell and quill. Sirius was caught completely off-guard, and when James looked up from his own feather—then a respectable foot off the table—and cried out “wicked!” he lost his concentration altogether. His inkwell faltered, wobbled, and finally tipped over onto the head of one Lily Evans, whose feather fell back to the table as quickly as it had flown upwards. 

The whole classroom stayed silent for a full three seconds, enough time for Sirius’s quill to hit the stone floor with a muted click.

James burst out laughing first. “Evans, now your hair matches your boyfriend’s!”

“Potter!” she shrieked, turning around with a mixture of ink and tears streaming down her face, which had turned almost as red as her hair. Sirius wanted to feel sorry for his future friend, but he was soon swept up in the amusement of the situation. 

“I dunno, James,” Sirius said while he still had the chance to be heard, “I think Snivellus’s is slimier.”

This sparked a shouting match between James and Lily with Marlene McKinnon and Dorcas Meadowes taking her side, Sirius and Peter taking his. Flitwick attempted to call for silence, but his voice was lost in the ensuing chaos. He instead cast a quick Scouring Spell to clean up the mess, but it seemed Ms. Evans was too busy being angry at Mr. Potter to notice or care.

“Nitwit!”

“Cry baby!”

“Jerk!”

“Witch!”

“Now that’s just uncreative,” Marlene scolded James. 

“You—you—” Lily stammered before settling on the worst comparison she could make. “You are an insufferable Gilbert Blythe!”

“Who?” asked nearly all of the students, James and Sirius included. Lily frowned when her insult was lost on its target.

“You know he only ever did those things because he liked her,” said Remus, who apparently understood her reference, pointed out.

“It wasn’t even James’s fault!” cried Peter in defense of his newfound defender.

At this point, Flitwick cast a Silencing Charm on the whole class. Lily and James continued mouthing insults at each other despite no words coming from their lips and began making faces. The Professor ignored this.

“Ms. Evans, your hair is clean, and the damage is undone. You had quite the Levitation Charm going on before your concentration was interrupted. You, too, Mr. Potter.” He turned to Sirius. “Mr. Black, it is quite unusual for a beginner wizard to cast such a strong charm. I suppose your parents tutored you some at home before the term.”

“Er, a bit.”

“Well, your family is not known for mediocrity. You show wonderful promise. Did you mean to levitate all the contents of your desk?”

“No, sir.”

“I won’t punish you for an accident, so 10 points to Gryffindor for sheer potential!” Lily gaped. “Mr. Potter, you caused quite the disruption for magic that was not even yours, so 5 points from Gryffindor. Back to practice, everyone.” 

Flitwick lifted the Silencing Charm, and class resumed. Sirius did apologize to Lily for his blunder, and she accepted it with a curt nod. He found that his suspicions about his magical prowess were correct, as the imbalance between his mind’s experience and his body’s inexperience caused him to be ahead of his classmates, but not unreasonably so. By the end of the period, Remus, Rose, Aloysius, and Frank had all caught up to Sirius, James, and Lily’s success. It came as a bit of a relief to know that he still had to exert effort in his classes and would not spend the next seven years even more bored than normal. Besides, this time he knew he had a war to train for. Unfortunately, History of Magic proved to be ever duller the second time around, so Sirius spent this period passing notes to James speculating about Gilbert Blythe in between his sparse notes about Ancient Greek wizards. 

During lunch, a black owl flew into the Great Hall, apparently missing the memo that mail was meant for breakfast. Cressida dropped a letter in Sirius’s lap and flew back to the owlery, not bothering to stay for a treat or petting. Sirius looked at the envelope, recognized the messy scrawl, and found himself feeling something akin to joy when he tore into the letter from Reg.

_Sirius,_

_Mother and Father have been fussing about your Sorting nonstop since your owl. So far, they’ve been too busy trying not to disgrace the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black too badly to pay attention to me. Even when you’re not here, you do a good job of distracting them, which made it all the easier to sneak into your room and filch your Harpies mag. (I knew where you keep it, by the way. You’re not a very good hider.) Not sure why Father got so flustered over it; it’s just Seeker Weekly. There are plenty worse things out there._

_I do have a reputation to uphold, so I obviously can’t be seen owling you the entire thing. I’ve torn out a shot of Guinevere Golightly to go with this letter. Maybe we can work out a trade—you keep distracting our parents by disappointing them and I reward you with pictures of pretty girls. Besides, this way, I get to keep the magazine._

_How _did_ you manage to get into Gryffindor? I’d even call it remarkable if it wasn’t so damn hilarious. Anyway, keep the Hogwarts stuff coming. – Regulus _

_PS: Guinevere isn’t too happy that I tore her page out. Good luck getting her to fly back._

Sure enough, Regulus had included a page from the magazine, though Guinevere Golightly was barely more than a speck on her broomstick in the distance. Sirius sighed with disappointment that he was not going to have an easy time of papering his walls with hot girls. Still, he supposed he could coax Guinevere out eventually. 

When Sirius felt a stern hand on his shoulder, he shoved the magazine page and letter into his pocket, flinching at who he thought was his mother. Instead, he realized it was his Head of House.

“Mr. Black,” Professor McGonagall began, “I understand your parents are not pleased with your Sorting.”

“No, ma’am.”

“That’s an understatement,” James said. 

“Mr. Potter, this is not your conversation. Mr. Black, I am here to assure you that, no matter how many Howlers your parents send you or me, you are welcome in Gryffindor. Congratulations on already earning your House points.” Though her tone was as stern as ever, her words were refreshingly kind. She looked across the table at James. “You, on the other hand, have already managed to lose points. Do not make a habit of it.”

“Yes ma’am,” James mumbled. He turned to his friend. “Didn’t you tell Evans you wouldn’t even be using your owl this year? You’ve already sent two letters and got one back.” Thankfully, he did not mention the Howlers.

Sirius shrugged sheepishly. “Well, I still hold by what I said. They don’t want to hear from me. But I couldn’t not tell them that I have forever besmirched the name of Black. And my little brother wants to know about Hogwarts. Once the shock of me not being in Slytherin wears off, I expect they’ll just try ignoring me.” 

Fortunately, Sirius attracted little attention the rest of the day. He spent his study period talking to Frank, swapping pureblood family stories about cotillion balls and governesses. It took a bit of effort to recall his life before Hogwarts, but the talk of debutantes triggered memories of his cousins’ entrances into wizarding society, which in turn unearthed entire chunks of his childhood he thought he had forgotten. 

“There was actually a time when my parents wanted to arrange a marriage for me,” Sirius said. 

“That’s not too weird for purebloods,” Frank pointed out. “I think my mum and dad were arranged.”

“Yeah, well, are your parents cousins?” he asked. Frank blanched. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Pretty sure Mother wanted me to pair off with my cousin Narcissa. They stopped talking about it when I was nine, since that was the year of her debut. She’s seeing that Malfoy fellow now.” 

“Do you ever envy the others, the ones who didn’t grow up with all that stuff?” Frank asked thoughtfully. “They know all of this Muggle stuff that we’ll never get to know.”

“I dunno. I think I envy anyone whose parents don’t try and set them up with their cousins, magic or Muggle.”

Study period was followed by an uneventful class of Herbology with the Hufflepuffs, which was never one of Sirius’s favorite subjects. Professor Podmore showed them around Greenhouse One and how to properly gear up for different plants, and a demonstration on improper spade usage took up the rest of class. Meanwhile, Sirius took occasional peeks into his rucksack at the picture of Guinevere Golightly, who had flown close enough to the foreground that it was at least apparent she was female. The only other good thing to come out of the class was the phrase “improper spade usage.” The single disruption to an otherwise peaceful afternoon came in the form of one Snivellus Snape, who cornered him in the hall before dinner.

“How can you make fun of my name when yours is so much worse?” Snape asked. “Sirius Orion Black—what wonderful initials. S.O.B.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, having already heard one lifetime’s worth of teasing about his name. “Call me a son of a bitch all you want, Sniv. I’m not going to deny it. What are your initials, anyway, Snivvy? SOS, a little cry for help?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and Sirius wondered for a moment if he had actually guessed the boy’s initials right. “I’m grateful the sorting hat had enough sense to keep you out of my House. You may be good at being a Gryffindor, but you suck at being a Black.” Snivellus pivoted and walked away while he still felt he had the upper hand. He had only been in this new timeline for two days, and it seemed that Sirius had already cemented his rivalry with Snape. Some things, perhaps, were simply meant to be.

Dinner brought with it the inevitable topic of Quidditch teams. James and Frank pestered Peter about his unfortunate loyalties.

“Peter,” James said, “you’ve got to pick a new team if you’re going to live with us. You can’t be a Cannons fan forever.”

“Why not?” Peter asked through a mouthful of potatoes. 

“Because they’re never going to win! Pick a team that’s actually worth it.”

“Easy for you to say, seeing as you’ve been supporting Puddlemere your whole life.” Sirius thought he heard a hint of vindictiveness, or at the very least, resentment. Considering James’s pampered upbringing, it would be no surprise to find that Peter envied him. Sirius wished he could believe that Peter had always harbored some grudge against James that would make sense of his betrayal, because the alternative—that he was a good friend until the day he wasn’t—hurt too much to bear.

James (very much alive and unbetrayed, Sirius reminded himself) scoffed. “There’s no law that says you can’t change Quidditch teams. I doubt the Cannons will notice.”

“They’ll notice,” said Frank, “because they’ll be losing 10% of their fan base in one go.”

“Never mind him,” James said, turning back to Peter. “There’s no shame in changing sides if you’re picking the winning side. Look at Sirius—he probably grew up thinking he was going to be Slytherin, but nobody can blame him for jumping ship since he’s a Gryffindor now.” 

Remus shot him a dirty look. “It’s a bit soon to be joking about that, isn’t it?”

“I don’t mind,” Sirius said. “I’d rather joke than have everyone think of me as the inbred pureblood kid who can’t even put on a talking hat right.” All five of them laughed heartily at that. James relented from his anti-Cannons tirade for the rest of the evening, but he made it clear that the conversation was far from over.

The night of August 30, 1971 was the first of many, many Evans-Potter showdowns in the Gryffindor common room. Sirius wondered if there was anything he could do in this timeline to ensure his friends would get together sooner and spare them six years of teenage angst, but their fights were too amusing to miss out on. 

“Come on, Evans, you aren’t still mad!”

“You know, Potter, I can’t imagine why I’d be mad.”

“Me either. You like Snape so much, I thought you’d love having his hair.”

“You couldn’t even get your inkwell off the desk if you tried!”

“And you could?”

Lily harrumphed and pointed her wand at James’s face. Sirius smiled, knowing that it would be the first of many times his friend would stare down Lily’s wand. “Wingardium leviosa!” she cried, and James’s glasses wiggled off of his face, hovering in the air just out of his reach. He jumped and flailed to catch them, but to no avail. Marlene and Dorcas giggled from the armchairs by the fireplace.

“Evans, come on! I need those if I’m going to write my paragraph on how to properly use my spade.”

“I’ll tell you where you can put your spade.”

Unfortunately, Lily’s magical abilities were still band-new, and her concentration on James’s glasses wavered, sending his spectacles falling to the ground. She glared and stomped away to her friends, who were attempting to complete the aforementioned paragraph assigned for Herbology. James put on his glasses and took a seat by the other first-year boys, but he did not pull out his textbook. Instead, he pouted for much of the night and started writing his first letter home. Sirius reluctantly decided to do his homework the night it was assigned rather than waiting until just before it was due, if only because it distracted him from the Peter Problem. He was already forgetting what had happened during his first first day of Hogwarts as he got more caught up his new life, and he wondered as rolled up his completed homework if he should invest in a journal to keep track of his old life. 

Jennifer Jones stopped Sirius on his way to his dormitory with a piece of parchment. It was in McGonagall’s tight script and read: _Meeting tomorrow morning at 8 in Headmaster’s Office._ Sirius groaned, knowing that sleep would not come easily with the prospect of seeing Orion and Walburga the next day.


	4. Chapter 4

Sirius did not like the sound of his eleven-year-old feet plodding up the stairs to the Headmaster’s office. His shoes made quiet, nervous thuds with every step, reminding him of how small and scared he was. He sounded even more fragile than he felt beside Professor McGongall, who might be the only witch alive capable of scaring his parents. He took a final deep breath and followed her into Dumbledore’s office. 

“Ah, young Mr. Black,” Dumbledore said serenely, “the man of the hour. Have a seat.”

“Hello, Professor,” Sirius said quietly, wishing he could speak at a normal volume with his parents so close to him. The old wizard had conjured enough squashy chairs for all attending parties to sit comfortably. Mr. and Mrs. Black, however, elected to stand. Sirius hoped he would not get into any more trouble with them by choosing to sit. He felt his father’s gaze on the back of his neck, even though he refused to meet it. 

“I understand there are some concerns about your son’s Sorting,” Dumbledore began, his eyes on Sirius’s parents. “And while I am happy to hear your opinions, I am afraid that the Sorting Hat’s judgment is final.”

“What is the word of a hat against generations of pure blood?” Walburga asked, eyes flitting over the Hat, apparently asleep, on a stool.

Dumbledore smiled. “The Hat sees inside the wearer’s head, his thoughts and memories and abilities. Sirius’s personal experiences far outweigh those of his ancestors. Surely the two of you remember you Sortings and how the Hat works?”

Orion squared his shoulders. “The Blacks are proud to say that it has been centuries since the Hat has taken more than ten seconds to Sort us.”

“Then how curious that your son should be a Hatstall,” the Hat said, roused from its slumber.

The Mr. and Mrs. Black both furrowed their brows, but neither would admit not knowing the word “Hatstall.” Truthfully, Sirius wouldn’t have known it either had he not been friends with Peter, whose first Sorting was cause for much gossip and speculation. 

“The Hat took over five minutes deciding what to do with Sirius,” Dumbledore clarified gently. “If the Hat and your son were deliberating on what House he would best fit, then I am inclined to believe it was not a fluke but a carefully made decision.”

“Is it true, boy?” Orion asked. “Did you talk with the Hat?”

Sirius nodded glumly. 

“When you asked what would happen if you were not in Slytherin, I didn’t think you were actually planning on betraying the family House. What could possibly have possessed you to embarrassing us like this?”

The Hat interceded. “ _I_ decided to put Sirius Black in Gryffindor. Despite whatever cunning plans he may have in mind, whatever great things he will go on to do, it was apparently that he has—what did we call it?—a ‘hero complex,’ right?”

Sirius nodded more enthusiastically this time. He had not expected the Hat to defend him so well when he had been so insistent on subterfuge. 

“It’s settled, then,” Dumbledore said. “The Sorting Hat has declared twice that your son is, indeed, a Gryffindor. Professor McGonagall, as his Head of House, do you have any objections to this young man’s Sorting?”

McGonagall stared coldly at the Blacks. Orion was unmoved, but Walburga dropped her gaze. “Sirius already gets on famously with his classmates and, I am told, shows wonderful promise in Charms. I am honored to have him in my House.”

“You’re all mad,” Orion said in exasperation. “But it’s no matter; we’ll send him to Durmstrang.”

“No!” Sirius shouted. His gall surprised everyone in the room, including himself. “I already have friends here, and I won’t leave Regulus at a school without me.” His father merely clenched his jaw, as any punishment he might have administered would be unacceptable in present company.

Silence settled over the office like dust. As the Blacks prepared to recite the necessary niceties to the Headmaster, the door opened, and a very large man walked in. 

“So sorry to be late,” Professor Slughorn apologized, wiping pastry crumbs from his chin. “What did you need me for, Headmaster?”

“We were just about finished meeting with Sirius Black’s parents regarding his Sorting. Horace, you may remember their post from yesterday.”

Slughorn grunted in agreement. “Yes, Filius was telling me about the boy’s performance in Charms class yesterday. I would have loved him to be in my House—” Sirius swore he saw McGonagall glaring daggers at the other professor at that “—but I respect my colleagues and the Sorting Hat’s decision.” 

The Head of Slytherin House proved to be a sufficient distraction for Sirius’s parents. McGongall took the opportunity to whisper in his ear. “I am sorry you had to sit through that.”

“I won’t have to go to Durmstrang, will I?” he asked with more innocence than he felt. He knew his professor would be sympathetic to him even when he voiced his anger at his parents, but he knew pity to be a master manipulator. 

“Not if you don’t want to.”

He nodded and added, “Did you mean what you said about me?”

McGonagall pursed her lips. “Yes, I did. But if you drop any more inkwells or start any more fights, I will not hesitate to give you detention, Gryffindor or not. Am I understood?” The last sentence was loud enough for his father to hear, and he raised his eyebrows. Perhaps he thought his son was getting a well-deserved talking-to.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Orion, Walburga,” Dumbledore said, “Sirius needs to join his classmates for breakfast before classes. I believe he has your class this morning, Minerva? Are there any further concerns?”

Orion was still rather red from his inability to publically punish his son, while Walburga had grown steadily whiter over the course of the meeting. The two of them remained as tense as ever and curtly declined to continue the discussion. With that, Sirius and Professor McGonagall left for the Great Hall. As he descended the spiral staircase, Sirius heard Professor Slughorn sucking up to his parents.

“It is an honor to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Black. Your nieces are doing quite well…”

“Thank you, Professor,” Sirius said to his Head of House when she left him at the Gryffindor table. His four roommates looked at him curiously.

“So you’re still in Gryffindor?” Peter asked.

“No—he’s sitting at our table and he’s a Slytherin,” James jabbed.

“Maybe he’s saying his goodbyes,” Remus suggested. 

“I’m a Gryffindor,” Sirius clarified. “The Hat said I have a hero complex, whatever that means. My parents want to send me to Durmstrang, but I don’t think McGonagall will let them.”

“We have her for Transfiguration soon,” Remus pointed out. “Do you think she’ll be a hard teacher?”

“Have you seen how tight her bun is?” Frank asked. “She’s like a walking stereotype of a strict teacher!” 

“But we’re her House,” James said. “She can’t be _that_ bad to her own students.”

Sirius sighed and held his tongue.

\- - -

_Dear Reg,_

_Thanks for the letter. I prefer your sass to Mother and Father’s Howlers any day. I expect you got an earful from them about our parent-teacher conference earlier this week. Did you do anything mischievous while they were away, like sneaking biscuits from the pantry? If you didn’t take advantage of an opportunity like that, I am ashamed to call you my little brother._

_Hogwarts is wonderful. Some of the classes are pretty dull, though. History of Magic is worse than anything those governesses or tutors taught us, but it’s taught by a ghost, which is really wicked. He floats through the blackboard to come into class, but other than that, he’s a bore. Herbology is pretty bad, too, unless you like gardening. I heard that later on, we’ll get to study some cool plants, but right now, it’s mostly just basic potion ingredients and harmless flowers. Charms is probably the sort of class you’re interested in, because that’s the kind of magic you can do cool things with, like levitating and summoning and conjuring. Maybe you heard from Mother, but I did really well in that class. Well, I sort of levitated an inkwell over a girl’s head, and it spilled on her, but it was an accident—I swear on Mother’s spiky chin hair._

_Transfiguration is hard. It’s turning matches into needles and then back again, that sort of thing. My mate James is the only one who’s better than me at it in our whole class. When we turned our needles back into matches, mine wouldn’t catch fire, but his did, even if it shot some weird sparks. Potions is rubbish, and it’s taught by your future Head of House, Professor Slughorn. He’s like the king of suck-ups, so you’ll get along. Defense Against the Dark Arts is cool, since it’s taught by an Auror taking a year off. Don’t tell our parents that I like that class, or else they might stroke out. A Gryffindor and opposed to the Dark Arts? The horror! I like Astronomy a lot more than any of my friends do. I think it might be because I’m named after a star. Is that too dorky? I’ve heard that your magic can change depending on the stars, that Mars might make it stronger, but Venus will make it more stable or whatever. Useful stuff._

_If you weren’t so hellbent on pleasing Mother and Father, you might like my friends. James Potter is going to be my best mate, I can tell. He loves Quidditch more than anything in the world, and he’s making it his personal mission to coax Guinevere Golightly to the foreground of her picture. He’s always bickering with this girl, Lily, in our class over the stupidest things. This morning, she criticized him for putting the milk in his goblet after he poured his tea, which got nearly the whole table arguing, or at least all of the first-years. Then there’s Remus, who’s quiet and likes to study. He left after classes ended today saying his mum was sick, and he had to go home, but I didn’t see him pack anything. Weird, right? One of my other roommates is Frank Longbottom—mention the name to Mother so she knows I have pureblood friends besides Aunt Dorea’s son—though we haven’t had a chance to talk much. So being a Gryffindor isn’t too bad. There are plenty of cool wizards in our house and they aren’t all “half-breeds and blood traitors” like Mother told us._

_Anyway, if this letter gets much longer, my friends might start suspecting me of actually _liking_ you or something. I expect another Harpy with your reply. – Sirius_

_P.S. First-years take flying lessons, too, but you grew up flying against me, so I know you’ll do just fine. James and I are going to try out of the Quidditch team next year if we can. If first-years could have brooms, I’d tell you to do the same._

It was Friday evening when Sirius mailed his second letter to Regulus, and Remus had already vanished. Professor Sinistra had mentioned that Sunday was a full moon, so Sirius knew to expect his friend’s departure, but he had thought it might wait until the day of rather than an entire weekend. Of course, if he wanted to pretend his mother really was ill, a weekend visit made more sense than a single day. Their entire dormitory noticed his absence during dinner.

“Did Remus seem okay to you during Charms today?” James asked.

“His mum’s sick,” Peter clarified. “Said she’s been ill for a while.”

“How’d he get home?” Jack asked, as though suddenly aware of how segregated Hogwarts was from the rest of the world.

“Flooed, probably,” said James, who then went on to explain Floo travel to his Muggleborn housemate.

As Sirius listened to his friends, he once again debated his own course of action. He thought it best to plant ideas in James’s head so he wouldn’t seem _too_ knowledgeable, but he could make sure that events progressed as they should. Though it didn’t seem likely that anyone would soon suspect him of being from the future, as soon as Remus’s condition became known, no theories would be too crazy, even for the wizarding world. 

“You know,” Sirius said, “I think he left his homework in the dorm.”

“Yeah!” Peter chimed in. “It was all over his bed.”

James furrowed his brow. “Why does it matter where Remus leaves his homework?”

“Because he has been the first of us to finish every single assignment so far,” Sirius said. “While you’ve been arguing with Evans, he’s been writing double the parchment requirement for all our essays. He read half the textbooks over the summer holiday! Does that sound like the sort of boy who leaves his homework on his bed?”

“He’s probably just upset about his mum,” James replied before changing the conversation. “Who wants to watch Quidditch tryouts with me tomorrow?”

While Frank, Jack, and Aloysius listened to James’s plans for the weekend, Peter leaned close to Sirius, his tie sinking into a gravy boat in the process. 

“ _I_ think it’s weird Remus left his homework,” he said. 

“Do you?”

Peter looked nervously at James as he replied. “I think we should do it for him. Write his Herbology essay and answer the Charms questions. And that’s just if he’s back by Monday.” 

Sirius struggled to speak. He had hoped so much that it would be James to care about their friend, James to talk about anything but Quidditch, James to be the first to take up Moony’s Homework Duty. He could barely remember who had first shown an interest in Remus’s mysterious disappearances in his first life, only that it had taken over a year for them to puzzle it out. But now it was to be Peter who showed compassion, as though the universe was determined to make Peter Fucking Pettigrew _likable_. 

“I’ll take Charms if you take Herbology,” Sirius managed. “Just make sure the handwriting isn’t too similar to your own.”

Peter nodded, a small smile spreading on his face. 

“And Peter?” Sirius added. “Your tie is in the gravy.”

The boy’s smile faded, and his face turned Gryffindor-red. He avoided making eye-contact and chose to listen into James’s Quidditch plans instead. 

The boys were to wake up early enough to get top seats at the bleachers, which meant they could not afford to play Exploding Snap all night. When they had readied themselves for bed, and Frank and Peter were already snoring lightly, James propped himself on his elbows and looked at Sirius.

“Why do you care so much about Remus’s homework?” The question was made poignant by the empty bed in the middle of the dorm still blanketed in parchment and books.

Sirius shrugged. “He’s my friend. I think I’d want someone to look out for my marks if my mum got sick—not that she’d want him home to visit. Probably make her worse to see me polluting the shades of the House of Black. But Remus’s mum needs him, so he needs us.”

For now, that would be have to be enough.


End file.
